


Christmas Eve, 1983

by formalizing



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baby Sam, Canonical Character Death, Christmas Eve, Damaged Dean, F/M, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their last Christmas in Lawrence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Eve, 1983

John leaves the boys with their old neighbours the first Christmas Eve after Mary, after they’ve packed up and left Mike and Kate’s. Lawrence is just too painful and full of too few answers to stay, and Sheila and Kim’s place just down the block is as close to bringing the boys home one last time as John can get.

They’d been friendly, before; they had barbeques in each other’s yards in the summer, and Sheila would offer to babysit anytime she could. They have a couple grown kids of their own who rarely make it home for the holidays, and the boys have so little extended family that Sheila and Kim have taken to them like an aunt and uncle.

Their tree is set up in the front window, and underneath it are a dozen or so presents with Sam and Dean’s names on tags shaped like reindeer and snowmen. There’s a couple more packed away in the duffel with their clothes, ones that say ‘Love Mommy & Daddy.’ Mary had already wrapped those ones and tucked them away in that hiding place at the top of the utility closet off the kitchen she thought John didn’t know about. They smell like smoke and the hint of her perfume.

Sheila’s kitchen is always warm and inviting, even more so when she’s got a turkey in the oven and a handful of simmering pots on the stovetop. She’s wiping flour off her hands on the well-worn Christmas apron tied around her waist, smiling at Dean as he crawls up onto one of the high stools around the counter without taking his coat off, like he’s ready to leave at a moment’s notice if John changes his mind.

“Are you going to help me bake some cookies for Santa tonight, Dean?” she asks, and Dean just stares with those wide, faraway eyes.

The silence stretches on, as it usually does with Dean, now; he hasn’t said much since the last time he asked where his momma was. Sheila takes it in stride, though, gives him a small, pitying smile that Dean looks away from.

“I really appreciate this, Sheila,” John says to cut through the quiet, and she turns that smile on him.

“I understand,” she says gently, eyes going a little watery, and John just nods and doesn’t tell her that there’s no way she possibly could. “Besides, we’re just so happy to have little feet running around here at the holidays again. Could only be better if you’d stay, too. At least have some dinner and see the kids off to bed?”

“Thanks, but I should go before the weather turns and the roads go to shit. Should be back in a couple of days, once I find us a new place. If that’s still okay?”

Sammy chooses that moment to start squirming in John’s arms, face screwing up and going red in the way that promises he’ll be wailing all night if he doesn’t get what he wants.

Sheila holds her arms out when the first choked-up cry sounds, but Dean reaches out for him, too, and John gives her an apologetic glance as he hands Sam over to his eldest.

“He just—he won’t stop for anyone else.”

Sure enough, Dean gets Sam settled in the crook of his own small arm like he belongs there, soothes him with some soft ‘shh’ing sounds that are just loud enough for Sam to hear, and the impending outburst is forgotten. Dean bends his head to kiss Sam’s small, curled fist where it’s holding his hand, and Sam blinks up at his brother with the wonder-filled eyes he reserves for him. Sam goes quiet—unnaturally so, when John thinks back to the way Dean had babbled all the time at that age—content to just observe his surroundings as Dean watches over him with a small, strange shadow of what his smile once looked like.

John thanks Sheila again, takes the sandwich she hands him with a grateful nod. He kisses both boys on the head before he leaves, promises to be back before New Year’s, and gets a firm nod in response when he tells Dean to be good and keep an eye on his brother.

Once he’s out in the cold, walking down the drive to where the car’s parked on the street, he allows himself to glance across at the charred remains of what used to be home.

The property looks particularly dark surrounded by houses glowing cheerfully with Christmas lights. There are still tarps and sheets of plywood covering the gaping holes the fire tore open in the structure—John’s been back inside with the investigators and the insurance assessor, but he hasn’t been able to find it in himself to start repairs. He thinks he’ll probably have to try and sell the place for whatever it’ll fetch as-is.

Dean’s beside the tree in the window, his brother on his hip, when John looks back that way. John honks the horn once, sees Dean quickly wipe at one eye with his hand before holding it up to wave until John’s out of sight.

His fingers clench around the wheel as he thinks of how they should be around their own tree as the boys open up their one Christmas eve present—the pajamas they’d wear to bed and down the stairs the next morning, the first gift she bought every year, like clockwork. Mary’s eyes would be soft and clear, her hair lit up like a halo with the Christmas tree lights behind her as she smiled at him.

He steps on the gas a little harder, makes himself stop thinking about anything other than the next stiff drink that's waiting for him. Maybe if he drives fast enough or drinks hard enough, the guilt won’t be pressing quite so heavy on his chest. Maybe he can forget his own wrapped gift from that closet—flannel, candy cane plaid pyjama bottoms that he’ll never wear but would’ve, for her—her handwriting on the tag reading ‘all my love.’


End file.
